<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Oldest Men on Earth by quincette</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29429427">Oldest Men on Earth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/quincette/pseuds/quincette'>quincette</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anniversary, Birthday Sex, Canon Universe, Centennial Celebration Collection, Existential Angst, Fluff and Angst, Growing Old Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, talk of slavery, the inherent romance of growing out your mortality together</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:42:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,038</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29429427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/quincette/pseuds/quincette</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“She was his slave. He bought her and released her from the service,” Yusuf says. “I’m not sure how to feel about that.”</p><p>“They seem very happy now,” Nicolo says. “Who are we to say what is or is not a good start?” </p><p>Yusuf chuckles. “Good point.”</p><p>“What would you do if you were him and I were her?”</p><p>Yusuf turns to him, mouth agape. </p><p>“Indulge me, <em>ya shamsi </em>?” He smiles. “Spin me a story?”</p><p><em>Wallahi</em>, Nicolò doesn’t often call him such, but <em>when he does, </em> like the exceptional marksman he is<em>,</em> it’s always fatal for Yusuf.</p><p>“What would a merchant of Maghreb do to this pale slave from Genoa, prisoner of war, an invader?”</p><p>Yusuf clears his throat, slinging his arm around Nicolò and pressing him into his side, as if it can shield Nicolò from the yawning pit of guilt he sometimes likes to wallow in. It’s a futile effort, all he can do is wade in and hold Nicolò, keeping him afloat instead of drowning. </p><p>“I would notice his strange eyes and his awfully big nose." </p><p>“And then?”</p><p>“Then I would haggle with the fiend who captured you. I’d swindle you off his chains.”<br/>_<br/>Or in which the (soon-to-be) oldest men on earth ponder and celebrate.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Centennial Celebration Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Oldest Men on Earth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Valentine's Day, wonderful people.<br/>Here's a fluffy oneshot to celebrate the oldest men on earth.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> July 1st, 1166 / Ramadan 1st, 561</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Time might have become an infinite resource for Yusuf and Nicolò. But that, unfortunately, did not eliminate the task of keeping track of it. </p><p> </p><p>If anything, timekeeping has become more important than ever, so they can plan their move and land somewhere comfortably, or not missing the rendezvous window with their immortal sisters, or catching the right ship and avoid pointless skirmishes, or not overstaying their welcome in a friendly place such that people notice that they don't age. Timing has been and always will play a crucial part in their endless journey in immortality. </p><p> </p><p>After decades of travelling together, Yusuf has developed a knack for selling their services and making up plausible stories of their lives; be it as sellswords, bookkeeper, translators, or scribes. Nicolò suspects that, if being a merchant does not involve building a long-term, multi-generational network, Yusuf would have slipped back into his original trade like his years as a warrior defending the holy land never happened. </p><p> </p><p>It strikes Nicolò how things have changed so tremendously from the time they met on the bloody battlefield at Al-Quds. Such that sometimes he believes that his years with Yusuf had been a fever dream; that he is trapped in purgatory waiting to reveal itself at his weakest. These feelings often sneak up on him in the space between sleep and wakefulness. </p><p> </p><p>Actions come easier to Nicolò. It soothes him to simply do, keeping both his mind and body occupied, even if the act is just to stay still and wait. Nicolò is not as good at keeping time as Yusuf, but he remembers well. Yusuf would remark something about seasons and opportunities, and Nicolò would store the information in his head, or any parchments he could get his hands on, and remind him when needed. </p><p> </p><p>They always try not to stand out in anything they do. Nicolò, too, is better than Yusuf at this. But sometimes situations reveal them as extraordinary. After all, when you have spent six decades fighting, two of which under the tutelage of the oldest, fiercest, most terrifying warriors on earth, you are bound to be good at it.  </p><p> </p><p>The wealthy princeling who hired them and two dozen other mercenaries to guard his caravans is a sensible man who listens to his advisors. It didn’t mean that his journey moving his entire family and riches across the desert went without bloodsheds. After thwarting the third bandit attacks, both Yusuf and Nicolò managed to distinguish themselves among their cohort. </p><p> </p><p>And so, when they arrive at their destination, they find themselves invited to the feast celebrating their erstwhile employer’s 103rd birthday. Any other day, Yusuf would have declined. But it is the first day of Ramadan that just happens to be a Friday, and Yusuf is feeling a little nostalgic of all the festivities. His sheepish glance at Nicolò is enough to convey that, and who is Nicolò to deny him? He gives him a little smile and a little shrug to say <em> what harm could it do? </em> So Yusuf smiles back and accepts the invitation. </p><p> </p><p>They are provided lodging in a spacious room with two large beds, ornate windows and a cooling pond outside usually reserved for extended family members. Yusuf spends the afternoon at the masjid for the communal Al-Jum’ah prayer. Nicolò takes his time at the hammam to bathe and stays in their room to read. </p><p> </p><p>Servants come into the room with food and water, a sign that their host knows of his differing faith and makes no quarrel of it. Nicolò drinks the water but doesn’t touch the food, squirrelling the dried fruits and nuts away for their journey. He doesn’t mind sharing Yusuf’s hunger, as he has been doing every Ramadan that they spent together. It strikes him that he is not used to breaking bread without Yusuf anymore.   </p><p> </p><p>The feast commences at sunset for iftar. They deck the residence’s main courtyard with plush carpets, piles of pillows, and lanterns lit by candles. The air is fragrant with jasmine grown along the perimeter of the property. Yusuf and Nicolò have a whole comfortable nest to themselves, not too far away from the host’s own, another sign that he intends to converse with them at some point during the celebration.   </p><p> </p><p>Just before sunset, servants come out to serve them a plate of dates and figs and small cups of milk. There is a giddiness to Yusuf’s smile that Nicolò hasn’t seen before. They wait until the muezzin calls for the Maghrib prayer, signalling the end of the day’s fasting. The milk is sweet, the date sweeter, and Yusuf’s smile makes Nicolò ache to touch him, to soak up his warmth. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf briefly leaves him to do the Maghrib prayer. It surprises Nicolò that he is not the only guest left in the courtyard. Several others are there, men and women of various complexions who do not share the faith of the land but welcomed to partake on the festivities anyway, which is both comforting and, if Nicolò cares to examine deeper, infuriating. After all is said and done in the name of one true faith, it is indeed possible for multiple faiths to co-exist peacefully. War, truly is, a pointless folly.</p><p> </p><p>The feast proper commences after. There are always servants carrying more food. Succulent lamb, steaming piles of fragrant rice, various creamy condiments, fresh juicy fruits, and to Nicolò’s surprise, wine. </p><p> </p><p>“All in moderation, Nicolò,” says Yusuf, winking and sipping his cup. Nicolò smiles and follows, it’s a rare occasion to be drinking with Yusuf. </p><p> </p><p>There are music and singing, and people waiting for their turn to present their presents. </p><p> </p><p>“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, alarmed. “Yusuf, we don’t have a present for our host.”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf clasps his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll give him something else.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò looks at him questioningly. </p><p> </p><p>“Stories, Nicolò, stories of our adventures,” he grins. </p><p> </p><p><em>How much will we tell him? </em>Nicolò wants to ask. But another muezzin calls for Isha and Tarawih prayers and Nicolò again finds himself left with a few men and women in the courtyard. It gives him time to go back to their room and fetch something he has meant to give Yusuf. </p><p> </p><p>Just like sadness and trauma, happiness compounds on itself. Tonight seems like a good time, Nicolò thinks. Or perhaps, if he cares to examine a little deeper, again, he selfishly wants to make the most memorable mark in this celebratory night that seems to make Yusuf so happy. Much later, he will look back and recognise the feeling as jealousy. For now, he thinks the timing is just right. </p><p> </p><p>After Tarawih, the celebration continues. Without more prayer time to interrupt it, it grows bawdier as the night darkens and the stars make their way across the sky. The servants light a huge fire inside a basin at the centre of the courtyard. As if given a cue, the laughter seems to get louder, the recited poems more suggestive, and the guests mingle more freely. </p><p> </p><p>“What will you tell him of us?” Nicolò asks when Yusuf comes back. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf looks at him, and their host. Sheikh Umar Said ibn Hossein ibn Idris al-Abbas may turn 103 tonight in Hijri calendar, which makes him 100 in Christian one, but the man is anything but senile. He is slight, but Yusuf can tell that his wiriness is mostly muscle. No patriarch is able to hold his seat as the leader of the clan for so long without being toppled by ambitious siblings or spawns if he’s not strategic, sly and occasionally ruthless. He will not be able to lie to him, much. </p><p> </p><p>“As close to the truth as possible,” Yusuf says. </p><p> </p><p><em> What does that mean? What am I to you in this story? </em>Nicolò wants to ask. But that very moment a servant tells Yusuf that their host is ready to greet them on his plush nest. Yusuf touches Nicolò’s elbow, prompting him to follow. </p><p> </p><p>A little apprehensive, Nicolò follows. He has developed an ability to play an improvised part in any scenario Yusuf devices, be it his bodyguard, servant, master, prisoner, and once, when the situation required it, his slave. And after, as if atoning for the lie, Yusuf always, always reiterated what he is to him: an ally, a friend, a companion, a confidant, a lover – all and more. He would whisper it between sheets, among fevered kisses and touches.</p><p> </p><p>Words and names and languages always do come easier to Yusuf. Nicolò never knows what story he will spin for their host now. </p><p> </p><p>The tale is both plausible and fantastical, woven just enough with tiny beads of truth that its texture feels genuine, though Yusuf paints a decidedly more flattering light of their encounter. Their ‘grandfathers’ fought at Al-Quds, tells Yusuf, and somehow decided that they didn’t want to be enemies anymore and deserted together. </p><p> </p><p>The world doesn’t look kindly at deserters, but somehow Yusuf manages to spin a compelling and entirely justifiable reason that has al-Abbas nodding along. Their ‘grandfathers’ went to Sicily, and later, Malta, and decided to go into business together. And here they are, Yusuf and Nicolò, sons of opposing sides of Mediterranean, raised together in Malta, and now set free to roam the world for a few years before going back to take the reins of their family’s joint shipping business. </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò contributes a line or two here and there in his still heavy accented Arabic. Yusuf is entirely his charming merchant self, always ready with a compelling explanation.</p><p> </p><p>They’re so skilled at fighting like they’ve been trained all their lives, says al-Abbas. That’s because they have, explains Yusuf. They, and 'their fathers' before them, have been trained to fight since they’re babes barely able to fend for themselves (these might have been the exact words their immortal sisters used to talk about them amongst themselves), thanks to the 'grandfathers' foresight of the dangerous time they’re living in.   </p><p> </p><p>It is admirable that two families with nothing in common can build a business and a life together, for generations, al-Abbas says. Ah, but they have the Mediterranean to thank for. And it is indeed a good business sense to cater to both the Muslims and Christians, is it not? counters Yusuf good-naturedly. At the end of each topic, al-Abbas always smiles and nods. </p><p> </p><p>And then al-Abbas turns his eyes to Nicolò, staring at him appraisingly for a long moment that makes Nicolò sweat. Then al-Abbas signals one of his servants, who ceases fanning his master with his enormous ostrich feather fan and stoops low to hear him whisper a request. The servant leaves and comes back with a woman. She’s old, but there is that same sprightly quality about her that makes it difficult to gauge her age. </p><p> </p><p>Al-Abbas says something to her that, to Nicolò’s surprise, sounds a little like Zeneize. The woman takes her seat next to Nicolò, scoots closer and takes his jaw in her hands in the carefree manner only wizened old women can get away with. Al-Abbas chuckles. Yusuf too, though Nicolò can see the way his mouth tightens just a little bit. Yusuf is worried.  </p><p> </p><p>But then he really looks at the woman and sees a pair of eyes not unlike his own – that undecided colour that exists between green, grey and hazel – and wrinkled, pale skin with freckles that could have been his had he aged, and brown hair streaked with silver that is so like his own nonna. In another life, they could have been relatives. </p><p> </p><p>Her name is Majmuna. She is al-Abbas’ fourth wife, and the sole surviving one, as his other wives had died and her husband doesn’t care to take younger ones despite no lack of offers even until now. She will turn 100 in Hijri calendar soon, which makes her around 97 in Christ's year. She has given her husband eight children, dozens grandchildren and many more great-grandchildren.</p><p> </p><p>She came from Genoa, and though she has forgotten much of her Zeneize, she musters enough for a simple, pleasant conversation with Nicolò. <em>Do you find your lodging alright? Have you eaten this? What about that? Which one do you like more? How was your journey? Do you like this courtyard? Have you a wife? A lover?</em></p><p> </p><p>Nicolò finds himself not minding the prodding at all, fully allowing himself to sink into the comfort of having an old woman fussing over him. He’s dimly aware of Yusuf continuing his conversation with al-Abbas while he entertains his wife. He wonders if this is what it would feel like had he and Yusuf brought their families together. In another life, a peaceful life.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes later, al-Abbas excuses himself, complaining about his age, and Majmuna, with a fond yet long-suffering sigh, guides him inside. Yusuf and Nicolò scuttle back to their corner. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re a lovely couple,” Nicolò says, if only to restart their conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“They are,” Yusuf says. Then he sighs as if contemplating saying something else.  </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò waits.</p><p> </p><p>“She was his slave. He bought her and released her from the service,” Yusuf says, eyes looking at the bonfire but seeing something else Nicolò couldn’t. “I’m not sure how to feel about that.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò is not surprised. He guesses as much. </p><p> </p><p>“They seem very happy now,” he says. “Who are we to say what is or is not a good start?” He presses his shoulder gently to Yusuf’s.</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf chuckles. “Good point.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, Nicolò, softly. “What would you do if you were him and I were her?”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf turns to him, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. But Nicolò’s face is open, free of judgement. </p><p> </p><p>“Indulge me, <em>ya shamsi </em>?” He smiles. “Spin me a story?”</p><p> </p><p><em>Wallahi</em>, Nicolò doesn’t often call him such, but when he does, <em>when he does, </em>  like the exceptional marksman he is<em>, </em>it’s always fatal for Yusuf.</p><p> </p><p>“What would Yusuf, the merchant of Maghreb, do to this pale slave from Genoa, prisoner of war, an invader?”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf clears his throat, slinging his arm around Nicolò and pressing him onto his side as if it can shield Nicolò from the yawning pit of guilt he sometimes likes to wallow in. It’s a futile effort, all he can do is wade in and hold Nicolò, keeping him afloat instead of drowning. </p><p> </p><p>“I would notice his strange eyes and his awfully big nose,” he says, playing along, as if he hadn’t always avoided the slave market like the plague, despite his family owning quite a few of them. Once upon a time, in another life before Al-Quds, before Nicolò. </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò snorts and rests his head on Yusuf’s shoulder. “And then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Then I would haggle with the fiend who captured you. I’d swindle you off his chains.”</p><p> </p><p>“You would swindle your fellow countryman?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know how I feel about slave traders,” says Yusuf. </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò hums. “I do,” he says. “But you’ve bought me at a bargain in this story. What then?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’d bring you home,” says Yusuf, imagining the story inside his head. “My mother would have loved you. You’re meticulous, and you can cook. You’d probably end up helping her in the kitchen.”</p><p> </p><p>“And then?”</p><p> </p><p>“But you also can fight, so my father would assign you to guard me during my travels.”</p><p> </p><p>“And then?”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf clicks his tongue. “What do <em>you </em>think would happen? Help me with the story, <em>ya rouhi</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò sighs. “I think,” he says. “I would fall in love with your kindness. I would pine for you. I would have died for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò feels Yusuf’s hands carding through his hair. They’re in public. But the night is languid, the music steady and the laughter flows freely. No one will care. </p><p> </p><p>“Not if I set you free first,” says Yusuf. </p><p> </p><p>“I think,” Nicolò mumbles. “I’d rather die.”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf stiffens. “Why? Would you not be happy?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. Because you would have robbed my chance at atonement.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah,” says Yusuf, as if Nicolò has explained so much more with that answer. “Then I am glad that this story is not our story.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t say I prefer our true story, either,” says Nicolò. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Yusuf agrees. The senseless atrocities and pains of Al-Quds casts a long shadow that would last long after everyone there turn to dust. </p><p> </p><p>“Nonetheless…” Nicolò starts but then trails off. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf waits, nuzzling his nose in Nicolò’s hair. It smells of jasmine and woodsmoke. </p><p> </p><p>When Nicolò does not continue, he does it for him. “You’re glad we’re here.” </p><p> </p><p>“It feels wrong to say it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then I’ll say it for both of us,” says Yusuf, whispering the word into Nicolò’s fine hair. “I am glad we are where we are, <em>ya qamari</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò’s eyes sting a little, so he closes them. He feels Yusuf tightens his arms around him. </p><p> </p><p>“I have just realised something,” Yusuf says after a while. “Al-Abbas and I were born in the same year.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you are 100 years old now in Christ’s year, 103 in yours, how could you not notice?” Nicolò teases. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf laughs, but it quickly dies down. “I wonder,” he says. “Is it strange if I say I've been reluctant to acknowledge the passing of time?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, not at all,” Nicolò says. Then quietly: “Forgive me.”</p><p> </p><p>“For what?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò sighs, slowly detaching himself from Yusuf’s warmth to sit straight facing him. “I did remember your birthday, 7th of Safar, you told me. We were in Palermo then, three years ago, when you turned 100 in Hijri. But I didn’t say anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“You cooked a wonderful meal, I remembered, you did celebrate for me,” says Yusuf. “And if I may confess, I was relieved you didn’t mention it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did sense as much. I wondered why,” Nicolò says. </p><p> </p><p>“Someday soon, Nicolò, I will be the oldest man on the face of the earth. The thought terrifies me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you afraid I’d leave you for a younger man?”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf stares at him so disbelievingly Nicolò can’t keep his straight face for long. He cracks a grin at his own joke. It must be the wine. </p><p> </p><p>“Nicolò, <em>habibi</em>,” Yusuf says helplessly, but the joke does coax a laugh out of him. “Never, my heart.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò squeezes his hand. “We,” he says, gesticulating so animatedly to the scant space between him and Yusuf, and he has to pause to take a breath. The wine really is strong. “We will be the oldest men on earth. One day. But not yet. And why does it matter? Try telling that to Andromache and Quynh.”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf laughs and squeezes his hand back. “Hayati, I am sentimental, not suicidal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” says Nicolò, plucking a grape and feeding it to him, seeing his dimples appear as he chews and smiles. “But it’s not the reason I didn’t say anything,” he confesses. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf raises his eyebrows. </p><p> </p><p>“The reason was entirely selfish.” Nicolò shrugs, hiding the heat rising to his face. He fishes out the parcel he hid among the cushions. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf eyes the parcel. It is carefully wrapped in linen. </p><p> </p><p>“I,” Nicolò starts but aborts it. Chewing on his bottom lip, he presents the parcel to Yusuf. “<em>Eid milad saeed, ya shamsi</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nicolò,” Yusuf manages. "I should be saying that to you. You are the one turning 100 in my calendar this year."</p><p> </p><p>"It doesn't matter, I don't even know the day I was born," he dismisses, resolutely looking elsewhere because he might break if he sees the wonder and love written on Yusuf's face. He is sure his face is redder than a boiled prawn. “It took me way longer to make this. I hope.” He actually <em>hiccups. That damned wine</em>. “I hope you like it.”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf carefully unwraps the parcel to find a handsome notebook. Smooth, thick paper carefully stitched and bound together with leather. That alone must have cost a fortune. But then he opens the cover and gasps. </p><p> </p><p>Beautifully drawn on the inner cover is an Arabic calligraphy of his name. Intricate, precise and finished with gold ink. The geometry is impeccable. </p><p> </p><p>“Nicolò,” he says again, and his voice cracks. Nicolò still refuses to see him, so he reaches out and cups his face. His skin feels flushed to his touch. “<em>Qamari</em>, it’s beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò tries to shrug. “I made sure I got your name right. It took longer to get it perfect.”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf chokes out something that might have been a curse or praise, it’s difficult to tell. Nicolò is smiling so wide his jaw hurts. Yusuf folds him into his embrace, landing a peck to his jaw where his mole is, resolutely uncaring of the surrounding. </p><p> </p><p>“Shall we retire for the night?” Nicolò mumbles against his neck. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf laughs, and in one swift, eager movement detaches himself from Nicolò to get up and make his way to their room in a manner that leaves no other interpretation of his intent. He’s not even glancing back, not trusting himself that he won’t do something wildly inappropriate that can offend their host. </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò takes a deep breath, reigning in his giddiness. Yusuf <em>loves </em>his gift, it feels like a triumph. </p><p> </p><p>And because timing is still on their side that evening, a servant kneels in front of him, as if she has been waiting to do so for a while. </p><p> </p><p>She presents a dainty glass amphora containing a clear liquid. “A gift from the lady of the house,” she says. “For your pleasure,” she adds, in case the purpose of the oil is not clear to Nicolò. </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò opens the stopper to a sultry scent that leaves his senses tingling with warmth. He feels himself flushes even more if that is even possible. “I thank your lady for her generosity,” he says, unable to directly meet the servant's eyes. </p><p> </p><p>On the way to their room, he stops at the hammam and makes use of the oil.   </p><p> </p><p>Their room is bathed in candle lights. And Yusuf is looking at him with such a longing that can only be soothed by a certain deed. And Nicolò is grateful that, for him, doing is a language far easier to master than talking.</p><p> </p><p>It’s easy for him to press himself fully to Yusuf, to push him into his bed and climb over his lap. It’s easy to undress them both while kissing Yusuf and luxuriate in the feel of his beard against his jaw, his teeth nibbling on his ear, his tongue on his mouth, the warmth of his skin and the dip and swell of his muscles against his own, the slide of his hot, hard cock against his slick, oiled entrance. </p><p> </p><p>Most nights of their couplings, as wonderful as they were, Nicolò always found it challenging to reach his peak, like he needed to go through layers of unaddressed mental barriers to arrive there. And when he finally did come, and he always did because Yusuf is a blessedly skilled lover, he did it modestly, soundlessly, like a secret meant to be buried at midnight.</p><p> </p><p>Tonight, he finds it easier to breeze through those barriers, and extremely difficult to be modest in voicing his pleasure once Yusuf is buried to the hilt inside of him. Yusuf's name tumbles out of him in broken syllables punctuated by breathy moans and tiny puffs of air. That seems to spur Yusuf on; his fingers clamp hard enough to leave bruises that disappear as soon as they form, his dark eyes never once leave Nicolo's face, their foreheads rest against each other.</p><p> </p><p>Much later, when they are lying tangled, sticky and sated, Yusuf whispers onto his skin that he looks forward to becoming the oldest man on earth, because Nicolò, the would-be second oldest man on earth, will always be there.  </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>
  <strong> June 25th, 1169 / Ramadan 27th, 564 </strong>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Yusuf al-Kaysani is a fiend </em>. Nicolò has decided. He has spent the better part of the day looking for his fiend of a lover. He woke up late after staying up late to share his pre-dawn meal and found Yusuf missing. On their dining table is a note instructing him to go to the fruit stall in the market: no further explanation, no further instruction. </p><p> </p><p>When he arrives at the fruit stall, Nisrina, the gruff housewife who rules it with an iron fist, hands him a small basket of various citrus and stone fruits and a note handwritten by Yusuf telling him to go to the butcher’s. Bilal, the butcher, hands him a packet of lamb wrapped in paper with another note, telling him to go to Shadiq’s tavern, which is closed before iftar but admits him in when he knocks. Shadiq takes Bilal’s package and some of Nisrina's fruits and tells him to sit still for two hours. </p><p> </p><p>Two hours later, Shadiq hands him a pot of fragrant mutton stew and a note telling Nicolò to go to Bashnin’s bakery. He receives a basket of sweet-smelling warm bread there, and the giggling baker hands him another note telling him to go to the old winemaker Francesco’s cellar. As Nicolò suspects, Francesco hands him a bottle of wine, and another note, this time asking him to climb the steepest hill outside of the town. </p><p> </p><p>Yes, Yusuf al Kaysani is a fiend, and Nicolò will plan a creative way to give him the cold shoulder. Probably deny him sex, too, to boot. </p><p> </p><p>By the time Nicolò finds him, Yusuf is sitting cross-legged on a carpet decorated with pillows overlooking a cliff. The sun is hanging low and red in the purple sky. There is a small fire nearby, where a pot of something is cooking. Yusuf’s curls are wild in the wind, and Nicolò thinks he is unfairly handsome even though he’s been a complete fiend. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello, my love,” he greets him like nothing is amiss. “Join me? It’s iftar soon.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò sets down all the things he’d been carrying none too gently on the carpet, and plonks down gruffly.</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf looks at him, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Thank you for bringing the food.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are a fiend,” says Nicolò, succinct. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf has the gall to laugh. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you’ve been kidnapped,” Nicolò says hotly. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf goes silent. He scoots over and takes Nicolò’s hand. Nicolò is too tired not to let him. </p><p> </p><p>“Forgive me, I have meant to be playful,” he says. “Did anyone give you trouble on the way?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Nicolò bristles. “Just-just you – what are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf kisses his hand then. And Nicolò is so relieved he almost forgives him. Almost. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you know what day it is?”</p><p> </p><p>“Wednesday,” Nicolò says incredulously. </p><p> </p><p>“Ramadan 27th,” he adds when Yusuf prompts him with his waggling eyebrows. <em>This ridiculous man</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“And in your Christ’s calendar?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò takes a moment to remember. “June 25th,” he says. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf still has his hand when he says: “<em>Buon compleanno</em>, Nicolò, <em>amore mio</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò’s eyes go wide. “But I don’t know my own birthday.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, yes, I’ve taken the liberty of finding it out for you. It took a while, but I’m pleased I managed to solve it for your 100th birthday.”</p><p> </p><p>There is nothing in the world that can make Nicolò not respond to Yusuf’s smile with a smile of his own. </p><p> </p><p>“How?” he manages, scooting closer to Yusuf. </p><p> </p><p>“Little clues,” Yusuf says, unable to contain his pride. “You said you were baptised after a Sunday mass three days after you were born at the height of summer, so you were born on a Thursday. You told me you had sailed to sack Mahdia with your lord’s retinue and you had been the youngest in his ship, so you would have been 18 in 1087. You were three years younger than me, in Christ’s calendar. I just needed to confirm some things before I was able to narrow down your possible birthdays, and eventually found it. Your birthday is Ramadan 3rd, 461 Hijri, or June 25th, 1069, your god's year.”</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò is no longer annoyed. He isn't sure what to call the mix of emotions churning inside of him. </p><p> </p><p>“Would you like to have your present now?” Yusuf gently bumps his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò snorts. </p><p> </p><p>Yusuf takes his hand like he did when he taught him to write Arabic and directs it to the setting sun. There is still enough daylight to see the clearing below the cliff. </p><p> </p><p>“The garden,” Yusuf says, pointing to a spot. “The vegetable patch,” he points next to it. “The playground," he points another spot with cleared earth with stacks of materials that looks like it’ll commence construction soon. “The orphanage,” he points a half constructed building next to it. “The school,” he continues to the newly completed building next to it, and concludes at a charming little house with a chimney at the edge of the forest. “And, our new home."  </p><p> </p><p>Nicolò looks at him like he’s grown another head.</p><p> </p><p>“Granted, I still need a lot of help completing everything but this land –”</p><p> </p><p>“You are utterly incapable of doing anything that <em>isn’t</em> grand, are you, Yusuf?” Nicolò cuts him off, because he needs time to process this whole thing. “How long do you think we’re able to stay here?”</p><p> </p><p>“A couple of decades? Then we can leave the land to the children? We can return in a few decades as our sons,” Yusuf says smoothly, like he had thought of this for a long time.  </p><p> </p><p>What can Nicolò possibly say to counter that? He presses his palm onto his mouth. His eyes sting. His heart feels too big in his ribcage.</p><p> </p><p>Then he feels a cold touch of metal being slid onto his finger. </p><p> </p><p>He looks at the simple gold band that perfectly fits his finger and notices a matching gold band on Yusuf’s. And when he looks at Yusuf, he finds it that he’s not the only one fighting not to tear up.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Shamsi</em>?” he chokes off. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s time, isn’t it, <em>qamari </em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Laughter and tears burst out of Nicolò at the same time. “How are we even going to do this?”</p><p> </p><p>Yusuf shrugs. Tears never look so beautiful on anyone’s face. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll figure it out. We have time.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Yes</em>, Nicolò thinks as he kisses Yusuf's smiling lips and tastes the salt of his tears. They have all the time in the world. Someday soon, but not just yet, they will be the oldest men on earth, after all. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoyed the story. I tried my best to make it digestible although I shot myself on the foot with the Hijri/ Gregorian calendars hahahaha.<br/>Gimme a shout out if you did :D means the world to me.<br/>This story is part of the Centennial Celebration Collection, a small event celebrating 100th milestone of our immortal husband. do check out the wonderful collection. Thanks for reading and hope to see you in other fics :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>